Emily Contra Mundum
by marzipan moon
Summary: The truth has never set you free.
**an.** demonology back story i guess. i don't own criminal minds, i'm just a bored 15 year old kid with too much time on her hands. creds to the main man himself, jeff davis. the title is latin and it translates to 'emily against the world' btw.

/

"Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It has been two years since my last confession."

The words are heavy in your throat and you feel as though the priest can smell your guilt and shame through the confessional booth. You're not sure you even believe in God, or redemption, but your Catholic upbringing follows you around like a bad smell and you don't know how else to appease the sinking feeling that lies at the bottom of your stomach like a stone. _God doesn't judge anyone_ , you remember your mother telling you when you were younger, and you blindly believed it until you got older and saw how something as simple as liking someone of the same gender could cast you out of the church and damn you to the deepest depths of Hell. You never understood it.

It was after that you stopped believing anything your mother told you.

Not soon after that, you stopped believing in God too.

"What are your sins, child?" the priest asks, his rich voice ricocheting through the church. You take a deep breath, swallow your fears and blurt everything out in the one hurried breath. On the other side of the booth, there is cold silence and the sick feeling from earlier returns. Finally, the priest replies,

"I'm sure you already know that abortion is an unforgivable sin. It goes against the first commandment and everything God teaches.."

You've heard enough by that point. You pick up your bag and scramble to your feet and whisper a hurried "thank you" before pushing open the door to the confessional and speed walking towards the doors of the church as fast as your legs can carry you. On the way out, you hear the priest calling after you, telling you that he'll pray for you. His words are hollow and empty and you don't believe a word of it.

It's cold outside and the wind nips your cheeks but you're too angry to notice. _Hypocrites_ , _the lot of them_ , you think to yourself. Your mother and your father and your 'best friend' who held your hand while they ripped the _unborn baby_ from your body who now flinches when your eyes meet his. They think you don't know, don't know what they say about you when your back is turned. Slut. Whore. Irresponsible. You hate every single one of them.

By now the anger has turned to sadness which makes its presence known in the form of hot tears and blurred vision. You slink down onto the steps of the church and bury your head in your hands and you just _cry_.

You cry for what could have been. You cry for the judgement you feel everyone imposes on you. You cry out of guilt, wishing the dirty secret that attaches itself to you like a scarlet letter would just go away. You cry for Matthew, who you're certain hates you now, hates you for the shame brought upon him by his parents for associating with you. You cry for your parents who would disown you in a heartbeat if they ever found out.

Most of all, you cry for yourself.

/

Twenty years later, you find yourself on the steps of a church once again, the wind messing your hair and the cold nipping your cheeks, but everything is different now. You don't feel like you can go inside because you're a good Catholic girl in the same way Madonna is, being that you're not very good at all.

You managed to shake the religious background as much as possible to the point where you can breathe without feeling like you're committing some deadly sin, but the guilt you harbour from that night still lingers within you, showing up just when you finally thought you'd shaken free from it. Sometimes at night you dream of a child, one with no face and no name, walking just too fast for you to reach them. As soon as you catch up, they're ten steps ahead of you and in the morning when you wake up you feel worn out like you really have spent all night walking.

For a moment, you almost consider going into the church, but you think better of it because you're Emily Prentiss and the truth has never set you free, but rather only held you back.

It's not until a few moments later when you notice the blood; crimson and thick and pouring its way down your face like the sin is seeping from inside of you. You wipe it away with the back of your hand and a few droplets fall on the ground, tainting the perfectly white snow like your secret taints your memory.

Suddenly, you feel lighter. You don't know what it is but a sudden rush of euphoria takes your body by surprise and you feel more like the person you pretend to be every day. Someone strong. Someone bright and brilliant and able to tackle anything that comes her way.

You turn your back on the church and walk down the stairs with your head held high, never pausing to look back.


End file.
